


Dress Me Down

by flashindie



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP without Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashindie/pseuds/flashindie
Summary: Her blouse is crumpled on the floor by the front door, and she can feel a heat finding her cheeks at the evidence of how quickly he’d gotten it off her, and, somehow worse, how many times he must’ve walked past it this morning. She can almost see it, that smug look on his face as he strolled by the mess of her clothes in his otherwise meticulous apartment, and just. It’s fine, Beth decides, grabbing her blouse off the floor, tugging it quickly over her shoulders. They’re both adults, she thinks, hands reaching for her buttons, they are mature divorcees (ishe divorced? Was he ever even married?) engaging in - - in - - Beth pauses, looking down, and her eyes flutter shut in something like mortification.All of the buttons barring the two at the top she never does up are gone, tiny, torn threads left in their place. The stark memory of him tearing her shirt open, buttons shattering across the floor like confetti suddenly alive in her head, and great, she thinks. Perfect. She’s stuck in his loft without her car and no shirt she can wear home.Just.Great.-Beth and Rio have sex in his closet. That's it. That's the plot.





	Dress Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on tumblr: can you write something like beth is in rios closet and he comes home to her wearing one of his shirts or something? like she surprises him and closet sex or :)
> 
> I'm still so sad about his loft, haha. Anyway, this is completely shameless. Hope you enjoy it!

It’s the sound of the door clicking shut that wakes her. 

That rouses her groggily from her sleep, her mouth mothy with the aftertaste of last night’s sugary cocktails and the Chinese food she’d had for dinner, and she pushes the heels of her hands back against her closed eyes, groaning softly as she does it and twisting onto her side. It’s only then that she realises three things in rapid succession – first, that she’s naked, second, that this is decidedly _not_ her bed, and third, that she can smell him – his soap, his cologne, that smell that’s just _him_ – below her, on her, wrapped up in the sheets around her. 

It’s enough to make her shiver, to want to somehow curl down into the blankets and spring herself away from them, the memories of last night flooding her head like something of a dream. She’d been out with Annie and Ruby, girls’ night, no special occasion, but it had been a nice reprieve from the quiet of her own house on one of Dean’s weeks with the kids, and as they’d settled up their tab, Beth had realised the bar they’d been drinking at was only a couple of streets over from Rio’s and - - and well. 

(“You can tell me to go home,” she’d said, stumbling through his door, her hands already at the hem of his t-shirt. “Or…”

“Or,” he’d agreed, grinning, capturing her mouth with his own.)

Beth sits up in bed, ignoring the ache in her back and her thighs as she does it (the physicality of last night reaching her before the memories do – oh, god, the way he’d held her legs apart as he’d eaten her out and - - nope, not the time), and clutching the sheet to her chest. Vaguely, she can hear his voice out in the hall, through the too-thin walls of his apartment, but there’s no one else’s voice there to match it. He must be on his cell, she realises, stretching a little, her gaze drifting out across the table and settling on the bedside table nearest to her. She blinks, a little surprised to find a paper take-away coffee cup there, branded with some trendy logo for a café she’s never heard of. 

Grabbing it, she pulls off the plastic top, and - - right, she thinks, taking a sip - - latte, extra shot, one sugar. Just the way she takes it (and God, why does that _annoy_ her). It’s not hot anymore though – lukewarm at best, and a strange thread of embarrassment uncurls in her belly at the thought that he’s been awake long enough to apparently go out and get coffee and, judging by the light coming from the laptop screen on his dining room table, start working. 

And god, she’d just been there, sprawled naked in his bed like some sort of - - and - - no, not going there either. She scrubs a little at her face, trying to will the redness out of her cheeks, as her eyes scan the rest of his loft, finally landing on the scrap of mint-green lace on the floor by his sofa. 

She almost takes the sheets with her – wraps herself up in them like she had that dropcloth the first time she’d been here, but in the end she decides _screw it_. Even if he does come back in, it’s not like it isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before. She has another quick drink of coffee, before slipping out of bed, padding quickly across the floor to tug on her panties, followed quickly by her bra, which she finds tossed over one of the strange little sculptures on his bookshelf. Her blouse is crumpled on the floor by the front door, and she can feel a heat finding her cheeks at the evidence of how quickly he’d gotten it off her, and, somehow worse, how many times he must’ve walked past it this morning. She can almost see it, that smug look on his face as he strolled by the mess of her clothes in his otherwise meticulous apartment, and just. It’s fine, Beth decides, grabbing her blouse off the floor, tugging it quickly over her shoulders. They’re both adults, she thinks, hands reaching for her buttons, they are mature divorcees ( _is_ he divorced? Was he ever even married?) engaging in - - in - - Beth pauses, looking down, and her eyes flutter shut in something like mortification. 

All of the buttons barring the two at the top she never does up are gone, tiny, torn threads left in their place. The stark memory of him tearing her shirt open, buttons shattering across the floor like confetti suddenly alive in her head, and great, she thinks. Perfect. She’s stuck in his loft without her car and no shirt she can wear home. 

Just.

Great.

She could call Annie or Ruby of course, but she’s not sure she could stomach the judgement or the inevitable jokes, so she disposes of the option almost as quickly as she’d rummaged it up. Her hands drifting back down to the opening of her blouse, thumbing over the loose threads where the buttons should be. 

At least they’re here, she thinks, catching the glimmer of one on Rio’s perfectly clean floorboards, and she crouches down to grab it, making neat, quick work of collecting the rest. He might have a sewing kit – something for mending his son’s clothes or his own, and she ignores the little voice in her head that tells her he’d probably just pay for the replacement as she pads softly back through his loft and stepping into his closet. 

It’s where she keeps her own after all – tucked up on the top shelf of her wardrobe, above the rail holding her coats and her blouses and her dresses, and it’s practical, she thinks to herself, clutching a handful of buttons to her chest, _logical_ , even if maybe the way she feels in here _isn’t_.

Because god, it had taken her by surprise the first (and only other) time she’d been in here, although perhaps it shouldn’t have. The order to his space, the meticulousness of it all, and it’s the same as it was then, the impossible urge to _touch_ , like it’s some greater, more intimate way of reaching him, to trace the soft, folded lines of his cashmere sweaters and his long, dark-rinsed jeans. To run her hands along the line of his hanging shirts – the colours she has never seen him in, the ones that she has, presenting almost like a diagram of all the ways she won’t ever know him, and she doesn’t know why that makes her _ache_. 

She lets out a hoarse breath, dropping the handful of buttons to his chest of drawers before walking softly to his shirts, tracing the hand not holding her own shirt shut across the arms of his. The black ones she knows, then, gently, the crisp, light blue ones she doesn’t. 

She can’t even imagine the colour on him, and the thought alone makes her bite her lip, makes her tear her gaze away, her touch, and pivot quickly back to the chest of drawers, remembering why she’s here. Sewing kit, she thinks, rifling through the couple of boxes on the shelf above the drawers, finding only cufflinks, rings, a few perfectly rolled ties, before she moves lower to open the drawers. Underwear, socks, a few thick woollen scarves, beanies she’s seen him in more times than she hasn’t. She releases her shirt to better rifle through it, messing up what she’s sure is a neatly organised system, and she’s about to give up when she finds a small wooden box, tucked neatly in the corner of the second drawer, and she grabs it, opens it quickly, thoughtlessly, hoping for thread, but finding - - 

Beth stops. The air suddenly gone from her lungs.

And maybe it takes her a moment to compute it, to make _sense_ of it, because the sight is somehow too familiar and completely alien, and she knows, of course she _knows_ that she’d left him her pearls all those months ago – god, more than a year ago now, but she hadn’t ever really thought that he would’ve kept them. 

Without thinking, her fingers find the smooth metal clasp, her thumb stroking down the soft curve of the pearls, and it’s just - - there’s a smell to the box too, a muskiness that’s familiar too, and it’s only then that she realises what the pearls are resting on. 

Folded almost too neatly beneath her necklace is the bright blue satin of her panties. She can feel herself blush at the memory of it, the sound of her heart beating in her ears, the line his body had made as he’d snatched them off the grimy tiles in that bathroom, and she’d figured it was a part of the game – the thought of it for him, her riding home in the passenger seat of her husband’s car, nude beneath her dress, his cum still wet on her thighs, the memory of him still pulsing between her legs, she just - - she hadn’t thought he’d have - - 

She hears the door click open, then the soft sounds of feet, padding across the floor, and Beth fumbles to close the box, slipping it back into the drawer before closing that too. Looking down at herself, at her grip, returned white knuckled on the opening of her blouse, feeling suddenly exposed, she figures, _screw it_ , shucking out of it quickly before grabbing one of his grey, cashmere sweaters from the shelf and slipping it on instead. 

And god, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. 

Maybe she’s still too hot, the smell of her old, dirty panties thick in her nose, maybe his sweater is a little too soft against her chest, maybe it’s only just long enough to cover the swell of her ass, maybe it - - maybe it _smells like him_ , or at least his laundry powder, and she almost wants to sink into it, can feel herself, the heat in her belly sinking lower, and it’s only worse when he appears in the doorway of the closet, pushing his shoulder into the wall and crossing his legs beneath him, that Beth remembers to breathe. 

He looks good. Of course he looks good, in his black jeans and his boots and his button-down black shirt and his bomber jacket, and she can feel herself flush at the realisation that he’s showered, that he’s put himself together, that he must have gone for a second coffee, if the one in his hand is anything to go by – the steam still curling out the slit in the lid, all while she slept, sprawled out and naked in his bed.

She thinks he might be waiting for her to say something, but Beth just stares at him, her fingers finding the hem of the sweater, tugging it down to better cover herself. It’s enough to make his gaze drop, a sly grin widening across his face. 

“’Morning,” he drawls, “Sleep okay?” 

It’s said in that faux innocent way that is always a quick to annoy her, and it does the job now of making her lift her chin, square her shoulders, like she really has a leg to stand on. She came here, after all, not quite as drunk as she pretended to be, wanting him more than she pretended to too, and she has just spent the last five minutes rifling through his things, finding secrets that she never thought to. 

“Better than you apparently,” she says, and when he arches an eyebrow at her, she squares her jaw. Stupid, a part of her thinks, making it sound like it’s a competition (but maybe it is, maybe he fucked her out last night, and the thought that he can unmake her and exhaust her so quickly, so _effectively_ \- - god, the way he’d bit her thigh as he’d worked his fingers inside her - - when he can apparently bounce back like it’s nothing is just - - no, she thinks, she needs to stop that train of thought right there). 

“Want to tell me what you’re doin’ in my closet?” 

It startles her back to the moment, and he’s standing up straight now, blocking the exit as he takes a sip of his coffee, and Beth flusters, can feel herself flush, as she realises that her fingers had unconsciously found the bite mark on her inner thigh, and he clocks that too, of course he does, grin widening out. 

She clears her throat. 

“Just looking for a sewing kit. I need to fix my shirt.” 

She gestures briefly to the blouse on the floor, then the neat pile of buttons she’d dropped on the dresser, and it’s enough to make Rio huff out a laugh. Striding into the closet, he grabs Beth’s blouse off the floor, dropping his coffee cup to the chest of drawers, and making neat work of inspecting the shirt. 

And it’s too much is all, Beth thinks, eyes darting across his face, tall and lean before her, and god, the closet had felt big before, but Rio’s always taken up more space than someone in his weight class should. She fumbles back a little, feels a heat radiate off of him like it always does, a heat that finds her, that burns her up too, and god, that’s not _fair_ , and she’s thinking of that when Rio suddenly tsks.

“Yeah, this ain’t worth keepin’,” he decides, and Beth blinks over at him. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Polyester,” he elaborates, holding up the label on the inside waist of her blouse as evidence. “You know how many chemicals they treat this with? It’s toxic. Bad for your skin. This synthetic shit don’t breathe either.” 

Beth opens her mouth, but nothing comes out right away, and she watches him start to ball her blouse up in his hands, like he’s going to throw it away, and she grits her teeth, suddenly irritated, reaching over to snatch it out of his hands - - or, at least, she tries to. He yanks it away at the last minute, like he’d known exactly what she was about to do, and holds it up out of her reach. She almost surges onto her tiptoes to follow him, but god, no, that would be - - 

Just _no_. 

She drops back into her heels, glowering at his shit-eating grin, and god, if that doesn’t just piss her off even more. 

“Sorry that not _all_ of us have the - -” she fumbles for the word. “The _budget_ for our own private silkworm farm or like, custom-made shirts that have probably been made out of threaded gold or some magical, exclusive thing that I couldn’t even imagine.” She scowls when he looks like he’s about to laugh, and she tugs his sweater aggressively down over her thighs. “And I _like_ my clothes, okay? So if you could just - - ” 

“I don’t know, ma, I kinda like you in mine.” 

It’s said so easily, so laxly, that Beth stops, looks up at him, at his too amused expression, at his arm still raised with her shirt, and he drops it to the floor, and slides closer to her, so close she can feel the heat radiate from his body all over again, and then his hand is there, stroking at her temple, pushing her hair behind her ear, and she trembles, she can feel it, and so can he if the way he swoops down to kiss her is anything to go by, and just, god, it’s embarrassing, how easy she is for this, for _him_. 

She winds her arms around his neck as he drags his lips across her cheek, down to her neck, nosing against her there. 

“You smell like me,” he purrs, breath hot at her neck as his hands stroke up the backs of her thighs. “I like it.” 

Beth keens before she can help it, pulling him closer, chasing his mouth again, and she just _wants_ him when - - when he suddenly lets her go, stepping back until he’s at almost the other side of the closet, and when Beth moves to follow, he shakes his head, stopping her in her place. She gives him a slightly confused expression, and he just - - he just looks at her, tilting his head to the side, taking her in, as if debating something internally, and Beth would roll her eyes if she wasn’t so wet already.

“You should take ‘em off,” he says suddenly, and Beth looks at him, at his eyes, too alert, his lips tugged into a grin. She does roll her eyes then, because she probably should’ve figured that was coming, reaching for the hem of the sweater she’s wearing, only to hear him hum a noise of disapproval. 

“Nah, mami, not that.” 

She squints a little at him, confused, and he pulls a hand out of the pocket of his jacket, making a strange, hooking gesture at his shoulder, tugging suddenly on something invisible, like he’s pulling on a - - and _oh_ , Beth thinks, heat finding her cheeks. Almost without thinking, her hands go around her back, slipping beneath the sweater to her bra strap. 

When Rio makes no noise to dissuade her, she huffs out a little breath, ignoring the heat in his look, somehow matching the heat between her legs, as she unclasps her bra, slips off the straps and tugs it off. She folds it neatly, placing it on the chest of drawers beside the buttons, and Rio just watches her, an almost too-pleased grin on his face that she refuses to acknowledge. 

When she steps back, she holds her hands out, as if to ask _happy?_ , and Rio makes a production out of staring at her breasts, his sweater hugging the natural slope and curve of them, her nipples already pebbled from the cool Detroit air. And he just - - he just _looks_ at her. A gaze she can’t place on his face, something hot, something unknowable, something distinctly predatory that makes her shiver for more reasons than she wants to explain, and she takes half a step towards him, to try and close this distance, but he quickly shakes his head, making her stop in her tracks. 

He drags his gaze down her body – from her breasts to her belly, stopping at where his sweater ends, just below her cunt. He tilts his chin up, and Beth can hear the instruction, loud and clear, and briefly thinks about ignoring it, but she just - - she _doesn’t want to_. With a wobbly breath, she lifts the edges of the sweater, enough for her thumbs to hook in the outer legs of her panties, tugging them off in one fell swoop, kicking them off her ankles and pulling his sweater back down enough to hide herself. She can’t help the heat in her cheeks, down her neck, spreading like an inkblot across her chest, and it only deepens when he makes a deep, thrumming sound in the back of his throat, something between a laugh and a moan, and to distract herself, Beth crouches down, reaching to grab her panties off the floor, only - - only she can’t, because suddenly he’s there. Suddenly his hand is on her wrist, yanking her back up to stand, tearing up the back of the sweater and slapping her bare ass _hard_. 

She yelps, stumbling backwards, staggering into all his shoes, but he doesn’t even seem to notice, both hands grabbing her ass now, kneading into the flesh there as he pushes his body against hers. Beth tries to hold her ground, pushing up against him, but then he’s kissing her, forcing a thigh between her legs, and any hope of control slips through her grasp. She keens into the kiss, one hand curling around his neck, the other balling in the shirt at his shoulder, and it’s just - - she likes kissing him. She likes kissing him too much. 

She likes biting him too, so she does that, relishing in the way he groans against her mouth and she reaches up to push his jacket off his shoulders, only he bats her hands away. Pulling back, she gives him a questioning look, but he uses the moment to grab her beneath her thighs and tug her up, and then she’s flailing backwards, falling back into his hanging shirts, crushing them back between her and the wall, and she’s grabbing onto his neck, his shoulders, wrapping her legs around his waist as he grinds against her cunt, the seam of his jeans creating a strange sort of _good_ , and god, she must be leaving a wetness there, but then she doesn’t think he seems to care. 

They’re both panting, grinding against each other, lost in the moment of it, and she thinks she could get off like that, thinks they _both_ could, and maybe they’re not far off it when he breaks the kiss to bite at the arm that’s looped around his shoulders. 

“My jeans,” he says, a little breathless, and Beth blinks confused, and he tilts his chin down, his eyes blown, and Beth looks down, at where his hands are still holding her up, gripping her thighs hard enough to bruise, at where his pants are straining trying to contain him, and she fumbles one of her hands off his shoulder, reaching down to undo his fly, shove his pants down as best she can, hearing his moan of relief as she frees his cock. And maybe she would’ve been okay getting off before, but now that she sees him, it’s all she wants, all she can think of, and she makes quick work of pushing herself against him, lining up his cock with her free hand and wetting the head of it with her slit. She shifts her weight in his arms before feeling him surge forwards, pushing into her in one hard thrust. 

It’s enough to make her cry out, head back, and Rio lowers his head, sucks a hickey into her clavicle before he goes lower, mouthing at her breast, at her pebbled nipple through his sweater. She thinks she can hear him talking, half in English, half in Spanish, can feel the words mouthed against her breath, even if she can’t make them out, can feel him shudder as she drags her nails across his scalp, hear him kicking away all of his perfectly lined up shoes to somehow get closer to her, to thrust deeper, harder, and god, she thinks she’ll be feeling this for _days_. 

She keens again, can feel herself getting closer, can feel the sensation of fullness, of just - - of _Rio_ , all around her, in her, the smell of him the only thing that finds her nose, the feel of him in the grip on her thighs, of him inside her, of his shirts at her back, just – just overwhelming, and by the time he drops one of her legs to roughly circle her clit, she’s too quick to topple over the edge of her orgasm. 

She clenches, hard, and he groans, thrusts growing more erratic, and when he growls at her to _do it again_ , she does, and then he’s coming hard too, pushing somehow deeper inside of her and he’s almost breathless by the time he collapses forwards against her, holding her against the wall with his weight as she gently strokes the back of his head. 

It takes them a moment to find the strength to move, for him to lift her off him and bring her forwards enough to not drop her on top of all of his shoes, and her legs are like jelly as she stumbles to find her bearings. He doesn’t seem to be much better, staggering backwards until he knocks into the chest of drawers, cursing lightly under his breath. 

“You aiight?” he asks after a minute, and Beth blinks over, takes in his hooded expression, his bruised lips, and nods, more blissed out than she cares to admit, only it doesn’t last that long. Not when she sees him grab her blouse off the floor and use it to clean himself up, before he shucks his underwear back on and tugs up his jeans. 

“Really?” she asks dryly, and he just laughs, before painting on a clownish, pretend frown, and gesturing to the wet patch she left on his jeans, and god. She can feel herself pink. 

Holding out a hand to him, Rio throws her the blouse and Beth makes neat work of cleaning herself up too (she’d never loved the shirt anyway, she tells herself, and fixing the buttons and trying to get the stains out of it are probably more effort than it’s worth). When she’s done, she drops it again, slipping on her panties, and lifting the sweater enough to put her bra back on, ignoring the way Rio watches her do it, a familiar, softer heat in his expression.

Smoothing her hands down over her sweater, she heads back into the main stretch of the loft, finding her jeans by the wall, and tugging those on too. Rio follows her out, but doesn’t say anything, just watches her get herself together, finding her socks, boots, then her purse, pulling out her phone to find a string of texts from Annie bemoaning her hangover, and a few from Ruby asking if they’re still on for dinner. She texts a few short replies to both, and then pushes her hair back off her face, glancing over at Rio, who still stands away from her, but not far, leaning back against one of the pillars, one of those looks she can never quite interpret on his face. 

“I’ll wash it,” she says after a beat, pinching the neck of the sweater. “And I can drop it over if you want, or I can just bring it the next time we meet.” 

And he just looks at her then, considers her, as if committing her to memory, and then promptly walks over, reaches a hand out, stroking a line down her cheek in that way that makes her breathless, only - - only this time it doesn’t stop at her chin, keeps going, down her neck, across her chest, down the side of her breast until he sprawls all his fingers there, cupping her softly. 

“Nah, keep it,” he says, shrugging, and then pinching the fabric over her breast and tugging at it. “You’ll have stretched it all out anyway.” 

She hits him in the chest – hard – but it only serves to make him laugh, step back a little, playful and soft in the afterglow, as she starts towards the front door, loading up the Lyft app on her phone. She’s got her hand on the knob, ready to let herself out, when he pushes up suddenly against her back, stealing her breath all over again, his fingers ghosting over her sides as he nuzzles against her neck. 

“Don’t wash it, yeah?” he breathes against her skin. “Wear it in that big ol’ bed of yours. Wear it and bury a few of those darlin’ fingers in yourself and call me so I can hear that sound you make when you cum.” 

And of course her thighs clench, of course she trembles, of course he feels it, laughing a little into her neck, and it’s all it takes for Beth to twist in his grip, something sparking in her belly as she presses her chest against his and lowers a hand to trace him in his jeans. 

“Only if you hold my pearls while you listen,” she says, voice too soft, too sweet, and she feels it, his sharp, almost inaudible intake of breath, his dick twitch against her hand, and she promptly steps back and slips out the front door, not quite able to hide her grin.


End file.
